Signatures
by Mounty Swiss
Summary: Fran Belding is thrown into the deep end. She will have to get used to it. (Set October 1971 after "The Gambling Game")
1. Chapter 1

**Signatures**

_This story is purely fictional, but the idea is very loosely based on a real event which happened in Switzerland in 2014. The story was written as a present for Stella KiMara – thank you very much for letting me publish it!_

**Ironside's POV**

"And what are you _not_ telling me, Commissioner?!"

It was obvious that he didn't just want me to investigate a simple burglary. There had to be a fly in the ointment.

He sighed the way he always sighed when he had to deal with me and didn't know how.

"I'm telling you everything, Bob. Just give me a minute."

Aha, now it was only a matter of time, not of trying to bamboozle me. Actually he knew – had to know, since he'd learned it by bitter experience – that he could not bamboozle me. "What was stolen?"

"That's the problem. Some sheets of paper were stolen. On them, a certain Alexander Peterson had collected over a thousand signatures."

"Signatures? For or against what?"

"Will you let me start at the beginning?"

"I would appreciate it!"

"The Mexicans living in San Francisco have organized themselves. Their club is called 'MISF', Mexicans in San Francisco."

I had heard about that. They organized folkloric events, music, dances and art exhibitions. They also asked for better schooling for their kids, and they helped kids defend themselves against racist bullies.

"Not a bad thing, the way I see it," I answered.

"Maybe not. But they have made enemies. Those complained about some of the fiestas being too loud and local residents feeling disturbed..."

More likely they were afraid of a formerly manipulable group of underdogs for now growing competence and power. Somehow these fears were understandable: fears of losing the privileges of the white race. The actual equality of all humans was long overdue, but not everybody was fond of that idea...

"...Therefore this Peterson has started to collect signatures against the MISF. He got over a thousand people to sign a complaint. Today he wanted to present them to the City Council. And last night, the signatures were stolen."

Now I perfectly understood the problem. "And he says that a member or a friend of the MISF has stolen the signatures?"

"Who else should steal them? Of course the MISF has to be afraid of the City Council's reaction to the signatures."

They had indeed. Still it would have been a silly action. The MISF would lose many of its Caucasian sympathizers because of such a theft.

"The City Mayor has requested that you take care of the case."

It was a little tricky of course.

Ed Brown nodded thoughtfully. "He is worried about public safety. The political situation is tense."

Fran Belding added, "You mean - the people who have signed the complaint – and potentially every militant member of the Caucasian population of San Francisco – might turn violent if they felt neglected by the police?"

She was a sharp girl, our little Fran who had joined our team just recently. "That's definitely a possibility," I confirmed.

"On the other hand many police officers might be too rough on Mexican suspects and cause a riot among them!" Fran was half Mexican herself_*_ and her heart beat for the oppressed minorities, a feeling which shone through her voice.

"That's exactly why the Mayor wants the most capable people on this," finalized Randall before leaving, stiff like a poker, as always.

I understood the Mayor's concerns. They were as justified as the entire case was silly.

Sgt. Brown was the right person for the job. I had trained him long and hard enough. He would stay calm in a delicate or dangerous situation.

Fran, with her Mexican mother... maybe not. She was a fine young woman, smart and spirited, but maybe a little _too_ spirited. Her over-pronounced sense of justice might let her act imprudently. And she was very, very young and inexperienced.

But who else should I send out? Mark Sanger had missed a lot of lessons at law school. He absolutely needed to study for his exams. Eve Whitfield Dwyer had left the team for good after her marriage. I had to send Fran with Ed to look for evidence, hoping that they would work better together than last time.**

I wanted to go out there myself so badly! But I had learned the hard way that my body wasn't up to such strain. I would risk quadriplegia or worse. For at least another week I had to sit still.

"Ed, you know what you have to do. If there is any hint to the burglar, I trust you will find it!"

"I'll do my best, Chief."

I knew. He always did.

Ed reached for the phone and called a forensics team. Then he stood up with the usual determined expression on his face. "Let's go, Fran."

* * *

><p><strong>Fran's POV<strong>

Together we drove to Nob Hill, where Peterson lived.

With the help of the forensics team we searched the house.  
>We – that is: Ed Brown!<br>I knew that for the time being the Chief wanted me to observe how he did it rather than search myself. He wanted me to learn how he wanted things done.  
>And I learned a lot. It was the most thorough house search I had ever witnessed... definitely Ironside style. The colleagues of the forensics team couldn't see the urgency of the case and tried to get it over with as soon as possible, but the Sergeant wouldn't let them. Whenever someone tried to get away with superficiality, he noticed it. The Chief had trained him personally for years, after all.<p>

Peterson, the owner of the house and victim of the burglary, was more than helpful. Nevertheless the effect was minimal. Peterson admitted that a window had been open the night of the burglary. As we could not find any signs of forced entry it was logical to assume that the burglar had penetrated by that window.

Ed found a plastic wristband in a bush below it. He examined it carefully. It was green-white-red colored - the kind of wristband members of the MISF wore occasionally. I didn't like this finding at all but didn't comment. It was too short to fit over Ed's hand. The burglar had to be a rather small or thin person. The Sergeant put it into an evidence bag and handed it over to the colleagues.

By the time Ed finally allowed the forensics team to leave my stomach had started to growl fiercely, but my colleague seemed to have forgotten that it was time for lunch. Like Ironside himself he turned into a bloodhound when working on a case. Maybe it was contagious.

"Let's question the neighbors!" he ordered.

We split up. The timing wasn't quite ideal. Many housekeepers seemed to be out during the day.

An old woman told Ed that a youngster had been around on his bike last night, but she could not remember much about him.

I was more successful: A neighbor further down the road had seen a car parking kitty-corner to Patterson's house. It could not be visitors, for the inhabitants of that house were on their wedding trip in Australia! The neighbor had noted the plate number, but then he had refrained from reporting it to the police, since it didn't look as if the house had been broken into.

I was happy to have an alternative to the clue of the wristband, one which didn't point to Mexicans as burglars.

* * *

><p><em>Author's notes:<em>

_* I borrowed this idea from Stella KiMara – with her friendly permission  
>** S5 The Gambling Game<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Ed's POV**

On our way back I noticed that my colleague was hungry. I should have considered that she was so slight that she could not have enough reserves. We made a very brief stop at a hamburger shop.

When we arrived at headquarters, Fran immediately requested the name and address of the owner of the car belonging to the plate number she had gotten. A very purposeful young lady!

Yet the result made me feel sorry for her: The owner was a certain Jorge Hernandez – a Mexican.

Of course Fran was a professional. She wanted to find the culprit. But at the same time she had Mexican ancestors herself and a heart for her people. It was more than understandable that she had hoped for a different result of her search.

* * *

><p><strong>Ironside's POV <strong>

Ed reported what he had found... and what he had _not_ found.

"It rained yesterday. Peterson must have been burglarized by the neatest burglar of San Francisco. Not only did he avoid stepping into the flowerbeds beside the paved path, nor did he leave any traces on the carpet. He lost his wristband, but I saw no damage to the wall, and not even to the bushes. Never mind Fran's plate and the wristband, I'm still not convinced by the theory of a Mexican stealing the signatures."

This wasn't just pity toward his young colleague; it was the standard of work I was used from my right-hand man. He would not jump to conclusions before all the evidence was there.

"I would certainly hope so after your years on the force!"

Fran darted me a confused glance. It reminded me of Eve in the early years of her working with me. Same as her Fran was tempted to parenting me into being nicer towards the boys. But Ed knew that he was good; he didn't need to be told, did he? And apropos, I had told him that he was a good man hardly a year ago._*) _If that wasn't enough...

When the phone rang I answered it. It was forensics. They had found two sets of fairly good fingerprints on the wristband, but none of them were registered yet.

There was only one possible next step: "Go and pay that Mr. Hernandez a visit!"

* * *

><p><strong>Fran's POV<strong>

Hernandez opened the door personally. He was in his fifties and not much taller than me, but almost ball-shaped: the happy-go-lucky type of man who loves eating, drinking, joking and life in general. Never would the wristband fit over his hand.

Ed showed his badge. "Police, Sergeant Brown."

Hernandez wasn't the least intimidated. Instead he seemed to be pleased to have visitors. "Come in, Sergeant, and the lovely lady also, meet my wife!"

He introduced his other half – same age, same size, same shape.

We were forced to a kitchen table and provided with cups of coffee – very good coffee, by the way, not the black brew my colleagues deigned to call that way.

"Do you have a son, Mr. Hernandez?" asked my colleague.

"No son. Daughter!" answered Hernandez, beaming with pride. He showed us a picture of a younger version of the same model.

"She cleans houses of rich people, some very rich people, some not so rich. Today she is nearby, she will be back soon. Wait here until she arrives! She will be happy to meet you, very happy! Yesterday further away; too far to walk both ways. I went to get her by car. Very good job, makes good money to pay for college herself."

"Where did she clean last night?" I asked, just to make sure that everything added up. Of course it did: she had been in Nob Hill. This made it very, very unlikely that a member of the Hernandez family had stolen Peterson's signatures.

Obviously Ed thought the same way. Politely he thanked the Hernandezes for the coffee and we left the friendly house.

He informed the Chief by radio. But if I had hoped that we would go home now I was disappointed.

"Let's go back to the area of the burglary. At this time most people will be at home. Maybe someone remembers that teenager and his bike."

* * *

><p><strong>Ed's POV<strong>

Again we split up to question Peterson's neighbors. As I had expected we were luckier insofar most of the inhabitants of the neighborhood in question were now at home. But yesterday's rain had kept them all inside. Nobody seemed to have taken notice of a cyclist. Would this be another dead end?

Finally the last couple on my side knew something. The man had walked his dog and seen the cyclist.  
>He let every scolding I ever got from the Chief seem like hymn singing.<p>

"What are you thinking, boy?! The kid on the bike was Caucasian. Our signatures against the MISF were stolen by Mexicans. What do we pay taxes for if they are wasted on useless cops like you?!"

Very helpful. Leaving the garden I stopped short. At once there was a gathering of people.

To gain a better overview I stepped onto the garden wall of the estate I had just left – and was appalled.

* * *

><p><em>* S4 The Man on the Inside, Nov 1970<em>


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Fran's POV**

"Stop! Police!"

Could the mob actually hear it?

Obviously the one shouting wasn't sure either. Therefore he pulled his gun and extinguished the next street lamp with one impeccable shot. The loud bang, combined with the area suddenly getting much darker, caused everybody to stare at the tall, lanky man who was standing on the garden wall of an estate nearby, gun at the ready in textbook manner. His little, if illicit demonstration ensured him the attention of his public.

"What's the matter, officer?"

His question was directed at me. The voice sounded cool and impersonal. I hardly recognized it as Ed Brown's normally warm baritone.

"Nothing needing your intervention, Sergeant Brown!" I said defiantly.

"Sergeant, you have to arrest this monster cop!" shouted my adversary, a Caucasian who was almost Ed's size and who outweighed me by a ton. His face was green and he was obviously in pain.

"She... she..."

"She kicked him where it hurts most!" explained one of his buddies, undecided if he should be amused or sympathetic with the big man.

"Would you like to press charges against the lady?" asked my superior, still very neutral, stepping down onto the road.

The bystanders seemed to take a step back. It was one thing to rant about police brutality, but another one to officially admit that a big man had been beaten by a small woman like me.

"N-no. But next time..." He didn't describe in detail what he would do next time, but the fury in his eyes spoke volumes.

"Ok, that's settled then. I suggest you all go home now."

"You heard the sergeant, folks. Show's over!" shouted the oldest of the men. Maybe he was a little more reasonable than the others; maybe he was just unsure of the outcome if they had insisted on that ridiculous accusation.

I wiped the blood from my nose which had been hit _before_ I had kicked the man. _After_ I had given him a clout round the ear. _After_ he had called the cleaning woman a Mexican hooker.

Ed glanced at me, and I thought that some warmth and caring had returned into his eyes... but probably this was only wishful thinking.

"Are you all right?"

"Of course I am!" I retorted angrily. "I always use that much rouge around my nose!"

He gave me his handkerchief and pulled me to the right, where he had left his car.

"Thank you," I said nonchalantly, calming down finally, "but I could have handled this on my own!"

He shook his head, rather uncomprehendingly than in denial. "What in blue blazes were you thinking?!"

Sometimes he was so much like Ironside, and immediately I started to anticipate how the Chief would react when he heard about this incident. He was rather understanding towards me, for he knew me since I was a small child with a fierce temper... but this time he would not be pleased.

"You were not there! You can't judge what happened. That big galoot excoriated the Mexicans. I had to intervene."

"We were here to find clues for a theft, not to solve the problem of racism in America once and for all." His quiet voice and driving style didn't betray his feelings.

"At least he did not press charges against me," I defended my actions.

"Is that why you kicked him where you did?"

"Of course! And it worked, didn't it?" Suddenly I became unsure.

Maybe this was worse than breaking his arm. The big man was humiliated. He would take revenge. Maybe not on me, but on the Mexicans within his reach. Still – Ed had to understand and acknowledge my motives. "That white guy put the Mexicans down in a mean way. What would you have done in my place?!"

"I would not have gotten involved."

"Of course not! You never get involved! You are such a jerk, Sergeant Brown!"

Only the safety belt kept me from being slammed against the front window when Ed suddenly braked heavily and pulled the car to the side of the road. For a moment I thought that he would throw me out, but he didn't. Probably it was his own idea of being a gentleman, no matter what the circumstances. He opened his door and got out. "I suggest you radio the Chief that we call it a day. Take my car back to the office tomorrow. I'll pick it up there."

Without another word he left. I had no choice but to take the wheel, still angry at him and at an unjust world. It served him well that he had to walk home.

* * *

><p><strong>Ed's POV<strong>

Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

I remembered a slightly similar situation with Eve. I hadn't left the car then but had suggested that she got out.*

Yet that had been in plain daylight, plus Eve was an experienced policewoman and she could easily afford a taxi. With Fran everything was different, I thought longingly. Fran was no Eve Whitfield.

_Of course she wasn't!_

I shook my head at myself. _Ed Brown, you have to stop comparing Fran Belding to Eve Whitfield! _I told myself.  
>It just wasn't fair. Fran was a fine girl and a very promising police officer. She was attentive and a fast learner. She had a caring heart and she only meant well. Her wanting to protect her people was nothing but natural, and very brave too. Ultimately I had to commend her for that. Frannie was still very young, and she had just lost her father.<p>

I had promised myself that I would be there for her. Now I had lost my temper with her again.

Would she find the lever to adjust the seat? She was so small. She would not be able to reach the accelerator... and, even more importantly, the brakes!

Dissatisfied with myself I walked homewards, and of course there was no taxi. There is never one around when you need one.

* * *

><p><em>*S4 The Man on the Inside<em>


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Ironside's POV**

It was past midnight and I was still sitting at my octagonal table which was, as so often, covered with documents, files, dossiers. I rubbed my neck. It was still awful sore, but I was more or less used to that.

As long as we could not completely rule out the Mexicans I had to look for possible Mexican suspects. Since the wristband was rather short the culprit had to be a small or lean person, and probably a youngster, since very few older people wore this kind of recognition sign. Still there were many of them... too many. Therefore the dossiers piled up on the table. There were different causes for that. The most important one wasn't their fault at all: Mexicans often got discriminated against when it came to being employed. Many of them were jobless. Young men wanted to work – needed to - otherwise they might more likely become criminal. Moreover their southern temper sometimes let them get into brawls more easily than others, and the police in turn wasn't likely to let them get away with it.

My contemplations were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. It was the Commissioner. "Bob, we have some kind of a riot around Dolores Park. A basketball team mainly of Mexicans played against a white college team. They lost, and now they are rampaging. They accuse the referee of unfairness. The police are already there, but I would like you and your team to be ready to question the people they bring in."

He was right: there might be a connection to the theft of the signatures.

As soon as he hung up I dialed Ed's number. He had to be home by now, since Fran had called me long ago to tell me that they had no new results and that they were calling it a day.

After the eighth ring I was rather angry when he finally answered.

"Sergeant, I need you here instantly!"

He was bright enough not to ask me if I knew what time it was. He didn't sound sleepy. Why hadn't he answered immediately?!

Ok, on second thought – he'd hardly had a minute to himself while I was in the hospital_*_. He deserved a little time off. But when I needed him he had to drop everything, and he knew that.

"Give me a minute, Chief..."

He sounded rather embarrassed. What in blazes did he need 'a minute' for? Except - if he had a girl with him!

To be honest, when I was Ed's age... no, I didn't want to think about what I was like at his age.

"Tell her a job is a job!" I shouted, not too gently, "and ours needs top priority - always, under any circumstances. Crime doesn't wait until we have the time to take care of it!"

* * *

><p><strong>Ed's POV<strong>

I stared at the handset. What was he talking about? Fran might be new on our team, but there was no doubt that she knew the Chief's position very well.

Shaking my head I hung up.

I had to hurry... it would take me quite some time to get to the office by bike. Fortunately I always kept my old two-wheeled steed in good condition, even though it was hardly used anymore.

Cycling full speed I thought about my boss. Probably he was in pain. He should have gone to bed long ago! Wasn't Mark there to help him get undressed? More likely he insisted on staying up. It was very hard for him to accept that he had to take things easier after his stay in the hospital. He was such a tough guy, but he had me worried. What if he overexerted himself – once too much?

When I arrived at the underground garage at headquarters Fran was just pushing the button of the elevator. Wordlessly we stepped in. By the time we reached the top floor my breathing was more or less back to normal. However...

* * *

><p><strong>Fran's POV<strong>

"What took you so long?!" shouted the Chief when we walked down the ramp.

I had taken the detour via Greenwich Terrace to pick up Ed, only to find out that he had already left his apartment. But I would not tell this to Ironside if I could help it.

I was spared an answer since he noticed immediately that Ed was all sweaty, although he wasn't wearing his jacket. Probably he didn't even need to see the forgotten bicycle clip on his pants to figure out the truth.

"Sergeant! If you can't come up with a very good explanation for the state you are in you will be busted down to patrolman faster than you cycled here!"

Ed took a deep breath. I felt my face turn red.

My colleague told the story, and I had to admit that he did it in a very objective way. He even took the blame for us splitting up in the first place. He'd thought that we might get on faster that way.

"And the thought didn't occur to you that Fran, being half Mexican herself, might be in danger?"

"Well..."

"I don't look very Mexican, so maybe there wasn't that much of a danger," I defended him.

"Do they know your name now?"

I had to think about it. In retrospect I recognized that Ed had carefully avoided using it. I had been too angry to be that cautious with his.

"No, but they have mine," answered my colleague in my place, and it sounded almost a little rebellious.

"Blast! Now you will have to watch over your shoulder until this mess is cleared up."

There was a knock at the door. Ed answered it.

A young Mexican was brought in by two colleagues from downstairs – obviously one of the rioters from the basketball game.

"Sir, we were lucky. One set of fingerprints on the wristband Sgt. Brown asked to be examined yesterday belongs to this man."

The two officers left immediately. He wasn't the only person arrested tonight.

* * *

><p><em>* S5 The Gambling Game<em>

**_Author's note for the DG fans among my readers:_**

_Together with "Hamlettethedame" I wrote a WHN to the 1967 movie "Gunfight in Abilene" with Bobby Darin and Don Galloway. You will find it on this website in "Misc. – Misc. Movies" ___(or via my profile). The title is_: "Aftermath in Abilene" . _


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Ironside's POV**

I started to interrogate the small, slender young man. I dare say that I am quite good at grilling people. This time it was tough though. The Mexican proved stubborn. He didn't say a word. The report said that his name was Fernando Gonzalez. He seemed to be one of the fans of the basketball team. But talk he did not.

I was tired, my back hurt, and I had enough of people fighting one another because of the color of their skin. Although I felt sympathetic to them for taking their matters into their own hands I was of the opinion that the Mexicans – or the colored people in general – made it so much more difficult for themselves to get help by taking up the gauntlet and breaking the law as well... My patience started to wear thin.

Ed noticed it and went to get some coffee. He even put a mug in front of Gonzalez. When I moved my head uncomfortably, he quietly took my neck brace off. Over the years he had learned to read me and to help me without making a fuss.

Fran watched him do it. She was a very sensitive young woman, and she wasn't used to seeing me in pain. She didn't know how to react. It seemed as if the insecurity and the compassion had backed up in her, when suddenly the dam of her self-restriction broke down.

"They can't help us if you don't tell them the truth!" She shouted it in Spanish, but even Ed understood her. Surprised he stared at her, and I read on his face the question I asked myself, "Do you feel as a Mexican, Fran?"

Obviously the prisoner answered this question in the affirmative. He started a waterfall of a speech which was hard to understand even for me.

"So you say that you lost the wristband _before_ the theft of the signatures?" I asked back in English, just to be sure.

"Yessir. Fight between me and Bruce Peterson, last week."

Bruce was Alexander Peterson's son... Now this could not be true, could it?!

Yet – I only had Peterson Senior's word. Maybe he hadn't even known of the wristband in his garden, and maybe he had lied all along.

The supposed or actual theft had already cost the MISF a lot of sympathy, and the riots even more. What if this was the idea behind it – not to keep the City council from seeing the signatures, but to discredit the MISF? And then – who actually knew how many signatures there had been? There was only Peterson's word for that as well.

"And did you lose the wristband in the Petersons' garden?"

"No, Sir. Not in garden. During fight. Not serious fight. Last week. In Golden Gate Park."

"Where were you last night?"

"In Candlestick Park. Selling ice cream."

"Do you have a witness to that?"

"A hundred, but I don't know their names. But my friend Filippo was there. He is in prison now. We were together at the ball game today."

Of course we questioned Filippo as well. His statement, that he had bought an ice cream from Fernando at the time of the burglary, sounded convincing, and he also confirmed the fight between Fernando and Bruce Peterson in Golden Gate Park the previous week. Instead of proving his guilt that wristband ultimately provided Fernando with a perfect alibi.

When we were among ourselves again I read in Fran's look the knowledge of the experienced, disillusioned cop paired with the hope of the young, idealistic one. She knew that all our previous theories were falsified, but somehow she seemed to put a lot of trust in my abilities to save the day all the same. Experience – or exhaustion - won the day, "We're at a dead end, aren't we, Chief?"

I felt that I had to cheer her up, "Not at all. We know now that Fernando hasn't burglarized the Petersons. The wristband doesn't prove a thing. There is no other clue to a burglary of that house. Where does that lead us?"

"To the conclusion that there was no burglary at all. Peterson has invented it and planted the wristband as false evidence."

"That sounds rather logical, doesn't it?"

Ed wasn't as easy to please as his young colleague. "There's no proof for that either."

Fatigue and the pain in my neck let my voice sound harsher than intended, "Then let's prove it!"

Fran flinched. Ed didn't. He knew that my bite wasn't as bad as my bark.

"Maybe it's not necessary to prove it after all," he added thoughtfully. "When we confront the Petersons with the evidence we have they may confess."

That was definitely an option, although not at three in the morning. "Whatever we do, we'll not do it tonight. Let's call it a night!"

* * *

><p><strong>Ed's POV<strong>

I didn't like to put the bike into the trunk of my car because of the scratches both vehicles usually get when you do that. Still I wanted the bike at home. So I decided to cycle home. Fran agreed to pick me up in the morning... meaning: rather soon.

Suddenly a Dodge overtook me and then pulled to the right, crossing my path. I had to brake heavily in order to prevent crashing into it. An Oldsmobile stopped directly behind the Dodge.

A masked man with a gun jumped out of the Olds. "Put your hands on your head, Sergeant Brown!"

So they knew who I was. They must have followed me from headquarters but I had been too tired to pay attention – an inexcusable mistake, especially after Ironside had warned me.

I weighed up my chances and the risks. They didn't like it and pulled me from the bike. A punch into my gut made me collapse like a pocket knife.

From the back window of the Dodge another gun was pointed at me. Resistance was futile. I was pushed into the Oldsmobile, my bike forgotten on the sidewalk.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Ironside's POV**

Mark was helping me undress and go to bed when the phone rang.

It was Carl Reese who was on night shift and who probably hadn't realized that we had stopped working on the case for the night. He was chuckling.

"What's so funny?" I asked. Usually people on night shift were tired and bad-tempered, not amused, and this night was even less funny than usual...

Carl came out with the reason for his hilarity right away. "Actually I wanted to tell you that we have everything on protocol regarding what that Gonzalez boy and his friend said. But while I have you on the phone you may want to know..." he snickered, "you won't believe it. We got a phone call from a girl. She wanted to know where Sergeant Brown is. One of the colleagues saw him unlock his bicycle in the garage. Say – can't you give him a day or two off? The poor boy has to decide between spending his nights riding his bike and meeting his girl because you work him so hard!"

"Wait!" Sometimes I simply felt when something was wrong. "Did you tell the girl where Ed was headed?"

"Of course I did. The guy deserves a little fun once in a while, doesn't he?"

Although I had thought just about the same a few hours ago I knew now that there was no girl. Ed didn't have the time for girls during the past week with me in hospital and then this case.

But then - maybe I was so tired that I started seeing ghosts. Maybe. Maybe not.

I hung up but right away dialed Fran's car phone. "Fran, come back. See if you can spot Ed on his way home."

The phone rang again immediately afterwards. It was from downstairs again.

"Chief... we have another riot. A resident reported that some of the rioters wore hoods like members of the Ku Klux Klan!"

I was about to bawl him out because the last thing I needed right now was another battlefield. I had enough to do with mine. Then I realized that there might be a connection. All the troubles of this night had to do with racial conflicts. There was no doubt that Peterson was politically right wing, and so was the Ku Klux Klan. Nobody would listen to a political statement of the Ku Klux Klan though. Maybe Peterson was just carrying out the Klan's political ideas, like Sinn Féin of the IRA in Ireland.

"How many cars do you have under way?"

"Only two. We don't have more spare people. You know what this night was like..."

* * *

><p><strong>Fran's POV<strong>

I was dead on my feet. Everybody knew that the Chief worked his people hard – and himself as well, for that matter. But up to now I'd had no idea _how_ hard. Ed seemed to be totally used to this kind of commitment. I wondered if I would ever get accustomed to it.

Therefore I was less than thrilled when Ironside called me once more. But when he told me the reason I was wide awake again. He gave me the address where I had to go.

"There's a riot – no need to tell you to be careful, Fran! I'll come as fast as I can."

Fortunately I had taken my own car and left Ed's in the police garage. I could risk much more with mine. I stepped on the gas.

In record time I arrived at the scene of the crime. What I saw let my blood run cold: A crowd of 100 or more people clad like the Ku Klux Klan was standing around and making a horrible noise.  
>When I opened the car door I understood what some people cried, "This pig was here with that Mexican girl cop... beat up Jim… didn't do anything to stop her… state an example..."<p>

They were talking about my earlier run-in with that big man!

Someone threw a rope over a tree branch. This looked like a hanging party!  
>In the agitated crowd I caught a glance at a man who was taller than most others. He was pulled towards the hanging tree. He was wearing a hood over his head, but not the same kind as the Klan members. I wasn't really surprised to recognize Ed Brown's jacket underneath!<p>

I almost panicked. How could I stop that mob? No way would they listen to me. Shooting into the air would not help. It took a man like Ed or the Chief to take advantage of the seconds of silence after such an action.

I was grasping at straws to come up with something to save my colleague.

A picture formed in my head: the picture of a ball-shaped Mexican with probably hundreds of friends - Jorge Hernandez. His phone number had been marked on the form about his license plate. Hopefully he was at home and I would be able to awaken him! Frantically, with trembling fingers, I snatched the microphone and told the operator his phone number – shouting at him or her in a way that he or she would probably be deaf for the next week at least.

Hernandez answered immediately.

Quickly I explained the situation to him. "Sir, please call your friends and send them here! We have to stop these people!"

* * *

><p><strong>Ed's POV<strong>

It was totally surreal. This could not be happening. A part of my mind uncoupled itself and analyzed the situation. The Ku Klux Klan had been active in the sixties of the last century, and then in a second wave in the 1920s. There was a third movement starting after WWII, most recently in Alabama and Mississippi, but here in San Francisco? I could not believe that. And even if so – I would not be involved in something so... archaic? unreasonable? fanatic? Would I?

They pulled me towards a tree. I only noticed it when I walked into it.  
>Something touched my hands - a rope! Somebody wanted to put it over my head.<br>At once I realized that this was no bad dream. Archaic, unreasonable, fanatic, yes – but very real. Up to now I hadn't tried to resist these morons in earnest. Now I broke away from the men who kept me. I didn't care whom I hit with my fists. They would not hang me just like that. I would sell myself as dearly as possible.

Yet there were too many of them. I was slammed against a wall and saw stars. Dozens of hands seemed to grab me.  
>Was this the end?<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Fran's POV**

Meanwhile Ed was standing under the tree. What if the Mexicans would come too late? And where in blazes were the police? Totally out of place I thought that they were never there when you needed them. I sent a quiet prayer to heaven and considered running into the mob with my gun drawn. Ed already had the rope around his neck.

Down to the present day I don't know how Jorge did it. It must have been some kind of snowball system. For me it was a miracle: Only minutes after my cry for help Mexicans started to step out their doors and roads, secretly at first, then openly. Suddenly the white Mob was encircled by 80, 90, 100 Mexicans. I also saw a few African-Americans and Asians.

The whites stopped their task. "Get lost!" shouted one of them, but it didn't sound convincingly. A stalemate situation – but one word, one ill-considered action could start a street battle.

Now two black and whites arrived, and finally the Chief's van.

Immediately it was clear who would have to take the initiative: Chief Ironside.

* * *

><p><strong>Ironside's POV<strong>

Quickly I had to consider my options. There weren't many, and each could mean people's lives – not only Sergeant Brown's, whose jacket I recognized under the hood of the prisoner with the rope around his neck. The situation was explosive. These men were scared. The whites - the Ku Klux Klan - were afraid of the bundled power of the colored people who had been suppressed for so long. Ultimately they were afraid of losing their privileges, and very acutely they were afraid of being arrested or worse, killed. The Mexicans had to deal with their friends in prison and the menace of a white mob which might go back to suppressing them more than ever.

Scared people were dangerous. I had to keep that in mind. The Klan was a bigger menace than the colored people, who were decidedly calmer. If I wanted to prevent the situation from escalating I had to calm down the Klan in the first place. I would have to offer them something.

* * *

><p><strong>Fran's POV<strong>

Somebody who had never met Chief Ironside could not imagine the radiance of his exceptional personality. No one could resist the impact of his charisma.

"Listen, gentlemen!" He didn't mention the ladies. Probably I was the only lady here anyway, and he didn't want me in the picture. I could not risk stirring up emotions from my earlier intervention.

* * *

><p><strong>Ironside's POV<strong>

"Listen! There is a lot at stake for all of us tonight.

"Some of you may not know that there is a white police officer under that hood with the rope around his neck."

Probably many members of the Klan and all the Mexicans hadn't known that. I went on, "A man who dedicated his life to making the world a better place. Is this really what you want – kill one of your own? But not only his life is at stake, and not only the personal freedom of those who will be caught and sentenced for murdering him. More than the personal freedom of those Mexicans who are in prison right now for the earlier riots of this night.

"For instance we also know about the signatures which have been collected. The MISF have not stolen them."

Ok, we didn't exactly know what had happened, but the second part of my statement was true for certain.

"The freedom of the _Caucasian_ persons who are responsible in this case is at stake as well. But that's not what I mean. If we end this night as enemies, then we miss the chance to finally become one nation of equals. Together, we can fly to the moon and further. Together, we can face our external enemies. Together, we will defeat crime, drugs and poverty. Together we can start the future today. All this is at stake now.

"I know that the ones with the hoods don't want to take them off. I offer you to leave them in place and go free, in spite of what you have done tonight. I know that the Mexicans want their friends in prison freed. They will be freed, I will see to that."

The crowd had become very quiet. After a moment one of the members of the Klan spoke up, "What you say sounds impressive. But how do we know that you will keep your word?"

I nodded. They needed proof, of course.

"Sergeant Brown!" I shouted, "Do you trust me?"

* * *

><p><strong>Ed's POV<strong>

For a moment I must have been dazed, but I had well understood the last part of the Chief's speech, and I had anticipated where it would lead. But he would not do that to me, would he?! My heart beat like a steam hammer. I almost feared that the Klan members would hear it. Yet when Ironside asked his question I knew what I had to do. Ignoring the dusty hood over my head I shouted as loud as I could, "Yes Sir, I trust you with my life!"

"All right," I heard the Chief shout, "Then I want all the police to leave."

* * *

><p><strong>Fran's POV<strong>

Ed must have seen that coming, the colleagues hadn't. They saw what a terrible risk for Ed's life – and not only his - they would take, and they hesitated. Yet Ironside repeated, "Go! I want every man here to decide on his free will if he wants to leave or not."

Reluctantly the officers got into their cars and left.

Ironside was now almost as defenseless as Ed. Yet I felt how the atmosphere around me changed. Baseball bats and guns were lowered, reluctantly at first, then determinedly. Mexicans and colored people took a step back. The tension calmed down. What remained was a certain perplexity. What should they do now?

Unexpectedly my friend Mark stepped in.

* * *

><p><strong>Ironside's POV<strong>

Mark knew very well what members of the Klan had done to his ancestors and very recently to freedom fighters in Mississippi and Tennessee. But he only had eyes for his friend under that horrible tree.

Unflinchingly he walked through the crowd. When he reached the group under the tree the Klan members let go of their captive. He swayed slightly. Mark pulled the hood off his head. Concerned he laid a protective arm around his shoulders. "Are you all right?"

For a second Ed clung to him for support.

It was a picture which burnt itself into every man's mind: The black and the white men together in the middle of the infamous hoods, like brothers – heralds of a new world, where the color of the skin was no topic anymore.

It was the victory of trust over fear, the victory of friendship over hostility, the victory of the future over the past.

I didn't delude myself: the problems of different nations living together in my town weren't solved for a long time, same as crime couldn't be beaten once and for all. The conflicts would flare up again. But at any rate never since then has the Klan shown up in San Francisco.

I believe that not one of the men who saw Mark stand by Ed that night ever wore a mask again or fought against another person just because they originally had a different nationality.

It was worth the trouble with the commissioner and the city council I had brought myself into by announcing a general amnesty to Mexicans and Klan people.

* * *

><p><strong>Ten days later -<strong> **Fran's POV**

It was a warm evening. The music at the Mexican fiesta became more animated with time going by, as did the people dancing.  
>Together with the Chief we had been invited as guests of honor after all charges against the Mexicans involved in the riots of that particular night had been dropped.<p>

Gallantly Ed took a bow to me. "Would you do me the honor to dance with me?"

"Fran, I warn you: he's an awful dancer!" laughed Mark.

The Chief added, "She saved your neck, Sergeant, literally! Spare her your stepping on her feet!"

I wanted to take his arm to prove them my courage, but another young man kept me back. "Come on, lady, let's dance!"

It was Bruce Peterson. Ed set the priorities right immediately. He pulled back. "Enjoy yourselves!" he smiled.

A little later I saw him push around Jorge Hernandez' smart daughter on the dancing ground. He looked as awkward as I had expected, but the pairing served the interracial understanding as well as mine with Bruce and Mark's with a pretty blonde.

* * *

><p><strong>Ironside's POV<strong>

Alexander Peterson followed the young people with his eyes, then he saw the big bowl of chili in front of me. "This looks good!"

"And so does it taste. Give it a try!"

He ordered a serving for himself and sat down onto the bench next to me, a little reluctantly at first, afraid of damaging his pants with the sharp creases.

After savoring his chili he visibly relaxed. He put one leg over the other, and his left foot started to tap with the rhythm of the music.

He lit a huge cigar and shouted, to make himself understood, "These fiestas are only half as loud when you take part in them!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Thank you again, Stella KiMara, for letting me publish this!_  
><em>Thank you, dear Lemonpig, for correcting the story!<em>  
><em>Thank you, dear readers and reviewers, for your support and encouragement!<em>


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